Home
by VeiledShadow
Summary: Home, he thinks, inwardly smiling at the sense of satisfaction and gratitude licking at his insides, because in all his life, he’s never had somewhere he can truly call a home.


Title: Home (1/1)  
Author: veiled_shadow  
Fandom: Prison Break  
Rating: PG-13  
Genre: Fluff, romance, family  
Pairing: Michael/Sara  
Spoilers: Season Four  
Disclaimer: All characters and situations from Prison Break are properties of Paul Scheuring, Adelstein-Parouse Productions, Hofflund/Polone and Original Television in association with 20th Century Fox Television. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: _Home, _he thinks, inwardly smiling at the sense of satisfaction and gratitude licking at his insides, because in all his life, he's never had somewhere he can truly call a home.

A/N: Non-epilogue compliant. Obviously. This follows the little story of Michael and Sara that has formed in my mind after lovingly rejecting the actual ending. It also explains a bit of _Calm in the Storm_.

**Home**

_There is a house built out of stone  
Wooden floors, walls and window sills._

_Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust._

_This is a place where I don't feel alone._

_This is a place where I feel at home._

To Build A Home – Cinematic Orchestra

It's dark when he finally leaves the diving shop, his hands covered in dust and dirt, which he wipes on similarly filthy looking jeans as he says good bye to LJ, Lincoln and Sofia and gets in the car. The sun is setting over the horizon and the waves parallel to the road lap gently at the sand, the diving shop becomes smaller and smaller in his rear view mirror as he heads home.

_Home, _he thinks, inwardly smiling at the sense of satisfaction and gratitude licking at his insides, because in all his life, he's never had somewhere he can truly call a home.

Turning into a side road which veers off from the ocean, tyres crunch gravel and then it really is there -_ their_ home – in front of him, and all he can see in his minds eye is her in their double bed, red hair striking and spread like a fan over the pillow.

The night air is warm as he makes his way up the driveway, and the soft mumble of the television as he opens the door tells him straight away where she is. Shutting it gently behind him, he walks into the living room to find her sprawled out on the couch at the weirdest angle he's ever seen, legs splayed out over the arm, her back twisted and arched in a way that accentuates her bump more than ever. Her head is turned to the side so she can watch the screen, the light of it flickering softly against the white walls, and her auburn hair tangled into a messy bun does little to keep the stray strands at bay, framing her cheeks in a gentle glow. Amusement spreads over his faceas he watches her absent-mindedly reach for another salted cracker, oblivious to his entrance.

'Good evening, Mr Scofield.'

_Or not, _he thinks dryly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as she drags a pink tongue over the cracker, licking off the salt as if it's a life saving medicine and not once focusing her gaze on him. He glances at the packet of crackers on the coffee table, which looks suspiciously empty.

'Tell me that's not the last packet,' he says slowly with a disbelieving stare, resisting the urge to shake his head at her growing obsession.

Focusing her gaze on him for the first time since he's entered, her eyes dark chocolate in the dimly lit room, he realises that he knows the answer even before she opens her mouth. She knows it too, yet she takes the liberty of telling him anyway.

'The baby needs salt.'

'Three packets worth?' He throws back routinely, because he's heard it from her before and he knows better than to fall for it again. Sara stares levelly at him, and as if to toy with him, takes a bite with a touch of smugness in her expression that makes his fingers twitch. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to take the damn cracker out of her hand and kiss her hard because he's not sure why, but pregnancy cravings and all, she's irresistible. 'You know, the reason you've got swollen ankles is probably due to the fact that you're eating too much salt.' She ignores him, chewing slowly as if to purposefully tease him and he can't help it, his hand reaches out for the packet on the side.

Her glare alone stops him.

'I boughtthose packets two days ago,' he protests, but his voice is defeated as he withdraws his hand. He's been subject to her raging hormones one too many times and he'd like to stay clear of them as best as possible _thank you very much_, even if it does mean succumbing to her cravings.

Rolling her eyes she changes the channel, and he's certain that he hears her mutter _walking baby book_ under her breath before she refocuses her gaze on him.

'All gone now anyway,' she informs him succinctly, dusting the crumbs off her chest and he forces himself to avert his gaze from her heaving cleavage, before she catches him in the act. Pregnancy, he's found out, definitely has its merits, and her breasts are _most certainly_ one of them.

The sound of her purposefully clearing her throat though tells him he's been caught and he has the courtesy to look sheepish. She's staring at him with a sense of hilarity in her expression and he has to fight back a sudden rush of longing that hums through his veins. She's infatuating, she always has been, but her pregnancy has left him besotted, and he's just itching to _touch_ her.

'You're dirty.'

He blinks, breath catching in his throat until it dawns on him that she's referring to his clothes, which are streaked with grime and dust from Lincoln's soon to be diving shop. Slowly grinning he arches an eyebrow at her, and again, she rolls her eyes at the cocky expression he's sending her way.

'You _know_ what I mean.'

'You're talking about my clothes,' he grins, taking one of her feet in his hands and rubbing a thumb over the arch in her foot, ignoring the soft sigh that tries to beautifully tempt his gaze back to her rising cleavage. 'Is this you subtly telling me I need to take a shower?

She laughs, pulling him down and pressing her lips chastely against his. He tastes salt and _her_ and he suppresses a moan of disappointment as she pulls away, because his groin has just tightened and it really isn't fair that she's teasing him without even knowing it.

'Maybe,' she replies, running her fingers through his closely cropped hair, eyes sparkling as she smilingly wipes at his cheek and shows him the smudge of dirt she's gathered on her thumb.

He smirks, kissing her quickly on the mouth before straightening up. 'Point taken, I'll be back in a minute.'

He takes more than a minute, turning up the water as hot as he can stand it and watching the grime wash down his body and onto the white floor of the shower, swirling down the drain, cleansing him clean. It feels therapeutic somehow and even after six months, he's still not used to the luxury of being able to take his time. Adjusting back to a normal life has been tough to say the least. Tears, sweat and love have bound the months together because even though they're free, their past lingers in everything they do. Sara, after a particularly hard day, had described it as _battling with the monsters_ and he couldn't describe it more perfectly, because that's what life is, taming the monsters, and he's not ready to give up on the fight yet.

It's half an hour later when he walks back into the living room. Sara hasn't moved from her position but she turns her head and smiles as he enters.

'Has it finished?' he asks, referring to the hospital programme she's become fond of as he comes to sit beside her on the sofa. She immediately rests her shaking head on his lap as if it's the most natural thing in the world, her red hair catching the light, gleaming from where it lays over his lap.

'Rerun,' she yawns, which turns into a purr as he runs his long fingers through her hair. Tossing the remote onto the coffee table, she looks up at him; 'How's the shop coming along?'

Thinking of the old, run-down building he smiles, thinking of its bare, cracked walls and dirty floor. A pang of fondness mixed with remorse hits him, and not for the first time, he thinks back to his old office, strewn in blue prints and architectural drawings that he just wants to pore over until they're at the point of perfection. He loves his new life, he loves Sara, but he misses his job and its growing with an intensity that he is becoming unable to ignore. 'It's still pretty run down. Lincoln wants to start painting before we do anything else.'

'But you're getting there?' she asks, reaching for his hand and he obliges, tangling his fingers through hers, her gold band cold and soothing against his heated skin.

'Just about. Linc thinks we could have it up and running in a couple of months.'

'That's good isn't it?'

'Of course.'

His immediate response has her raising an unconvinced eyebrow. 'But?'

He sighs, readjusting the gold band on her finger slightly. 'I miss my old job.'

Stilling his fingers with her hand she waits until he locks eyes with her until she speaks. 'You can get that back, Michael.'

The words echo with familiarity and the sudden flash of them in a small, dirty bathroom on a train comes to mind. That was their second kiss and he remembers how it had felt, a combination of love, desperation, hope and irritancy towards his brother and his perfect timing.

'Yeh, well,' he says, his slow smile not quite reaching his eyes. 'I hope you're right.'

'I know I am,' she presses softly. 'Someone once told me something very similar, and he has a knack for being annoyingly right.'

This time he really does smile properly and as she shifts slightly, it dawns on him that he hasn't asked the question that's been nagging at him since he arrived home.

'Not that I'm judging,' he starts, smoothing his palm over her hair. 'But is this a new way of sitting on a sofa that I'm unaware of?'

Laughing, she tilts her head so she can look up at him better. 'It might have to be. After a whole day of trying to get relief from an aching back, this is strangely the only position that's doing the trick.'

'Ah,' he responds, ghosting his fingers over the swell of her belly in a tender caress and breaking into an ear splitting grin when he feels the soft kick underneath his palm.

Sara smiles at him, her low chuckle rolling through him in waves that wash against his heart. 'I still don't get how you do that.'

'Father's touch,' he quips and she laughs again, louder this time. Her hands settle on top of his, guiding them down to the underside of her belly. 'Has it been bothering you all day?'

'Mmm,' she responds in a non-committal hum, moving his hands underneath her loose cotton top and he has to bite back a gentle gasp because something that was once very innocent is starting to feel like a strange sort of foreplay. The bare skin of her stomach feels hard and tight underneath his hand, but irrevocably smooth and his heart longs for her bare skin to be pressed against his, his fingers tangled in her hair as her kisses her. A sharp kick brings him back to reality, and he looks down at her as she shifts uncomfortably. 'The monster has been kicking here all day and doing acrobats against my spine.'

'Maybe they'll be into sports?' he suggests lightly, rubbing a thumb over the soft skin and trying not to notice when she squirms against him, because really he should know better than to caress her well known ticklish spot.

Her stomach jolts underneath his hand as she snorts, unsuccessfully suppressing her amusement and he laughs loudly. 'Or not,' he corrects. 'I guess we're not the most athletic people around.'

She raises an eyebrow at him. 'Are you kidding? Michael, we spent little less than a year running for our lives.'

As soon as she's said it, regret hits her facial expression like a sudden change in the weather. His gaze has darkened, he can feel it and he wishes he'd managed to stop it before it was too late. Their past still clings to them like a lingering shadow, and although it's getting better, the guilt of his actions still haunts him. Her eyes search his expression, reaching for words of apology but he stops her, reaching out because he's already dampened the mood and he doesn't want to put it into words as well. The baby kicks again under his palm, spinning him into the future of a new set of hazel eyes and little fingers curled round his.

'I used to play baseball, you know,' he says slowly, his brain scrabbling at a sudden memory. Sara's hazel eyes flicker in surprise at the unexpected conversation, drinking him in for a second, and then they light up, the tension seeping from the room, floating away with the night breeze as she grins.

'Lincoln says that _tried_ to play baseball was a better word.'

The image of his brother desperately attempting to teach him to hit the ball in the run down park near their first foster home flashes before his eyes. He was six and vulnerable, still recovering from the supposed death of their mother and Lincoln had dragged him out with a determination to turn things around. Even now he can remember how the wooden bat had felt in his hand, the handle smooth leather as he'd swung clumsily, missing every time. Lincoln had persisted until dusk, annoyance diffusing into a tender fondness that rarely pierced through his hard pretence that covered him like a shell as he grew older and more rebellious. The sky was dark blue, streaked with pink and orange as they traipsed home, burnt ochre leaves crunching under their feet and the night air crisp against his fingers curled around the handle of the bat, which dragged behind him on the pavement as he followed Lincoln with blind adoration, his baseball cap dipped low over his eyes.

With a ghost of a smile still flickering at his lips he looks down at the red hair draped over his lap. It's come free from its constraint and he runs his fingers through it. 'Time for bed?'

She nods, her smirk turning into a grimace as she sits up, her hand automatically going to her lower back. 'Yeh.'

'I'll lock up.'

She nods, leaning forward and pressing her lips against his. 'Ok.' Her breath is hot against his skin and he resists the urge to follow her as she pads barefoot down the hallway, hips swaying as she rakes a hand through her loose hair.

He takes his time locking up the house. Slowly switching off the lights and closing the doors. When he reaches the patio doors he pauses. The soft wash of the ocean flutters through the night breeze, rippling through the curtains that muzzle at his bare legs. Stepping out onto the veranda, his fingers brush along the wooden walls of the house. They feel solid under his touch – real – and he realises that for the first time in his life he finally has stability. He might not have a job, his old life, but he has everything he ever truly wanted. He has a family. He has a home.

A light blinks into the darkness and he turns to see Sara's silhouette moving through the white curtains as she gets ready for bed. They've built this, _their_ home, _together_, and finally, as the salt air fills his lungs in a rush of exhilaration, he finally feels free.


End file.
